


this thing we keep

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, OT3, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 17:11:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12562224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jealousy is unbecoming, or so they say—but really, Jeremy can't help it, not when Richard insists on touching James all the time, leaving Jeremy with the bitter aftertaste ofminein his mouth every time he looks at them both.





	this thing we keep

**Author's Note:**

> this one came to me as I was at uni listening to Genghis Khan by Miike Snow (go watch the [music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_SlAzsXa7E&ab_channel=MiikeSnow), it's fantastic!) and things... spiralled. as they tend to do. the pairings are a bit of a mess but I promise it all makes sense by the end. also this was my first time writing ot3 smut which I only realised after I was done? i'm clueless lmao

It’s when Jeremy is turning to get his cup of tea—he’d made it a half hour ago and, once he’d sat back down at his desk, had promptly forgotten about it—that he sees it and pauses, hand hovering in the air. It’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary, or it shouldn’t be; Richard is leaning over James’ desk, pointing at something on the screen. They’ve all pulled that pose hundreds of times—thousands, probably, since James’ computer seems to actively rebel against him often—but it’s not this that gives him pause.

Richard’s other hand is resting on James’ neck, his thumb just brushing the skin above the collar of his shirt, and he’s sweeping it back and forth gently.

Ordinarily, this would not make him pause. But James is not moving away. And in fact, as Jeremy stares in bewilderment, he leans back into Richard’s hand and looks up at him and _laughs_. It’s a perfect little moment between the two of them. Jeremy is sure they have no idea that he’s staring, and, in fact, he almost feels like he’s _intruding_. Which is ridiculous. Surely?

He finally picks up his tea and by the time he turns back to look at them the moment is broken, Richard heading back to his own computer and James once again engrossed in whatever he’s doing. Jeremy watches them for a moment, but they don’t even look at him. They are still completely unaware.

He turns back to his computer reluctantly, unable to shake the feeling that he’s on the outside of an inside joke.

***

He intends to ask James about it that evening. In fact, he already has a speech prepared; interrogating his colleagues is natural, so natural that he could do it in his sleep if he so desired. After all, if anything justifies an interrogation, it’s this. For as long as Jeremy has known James he’s been touch-averse—move into his orbit and he would move slightly away; touch him deliberately and he would swerve clear. He and Richard have tried to figure it out many times over a pint—is it his finicky rules about cleanliness? Is he deliberately hiding the fact that he has erogenous zones all over his body?—and have never managed it, so this… this is new. Jeremy doesn’t quite know what to do with new, not when it comes to James. He is predictable, safe. It’s what makes him so comforting.

Of course, all thoughts of James’ predictability fade the moment Jeremy opens the door with a smart remark on his tongue, promptly to be silenced by James stepping inside, shutting the door behind him, and pressing a kiss to Jeremy’s lips.

His tongue catches up before his brain does and, as James pulls away but stays close, he raises an eyebrow, trying for nonplussed and missing completely. “I didn’t realise you were planning to accost me the moment you walked in the door, James. You’re a bloody predator.”

“I quite like seeing you speechless, Clarkson,” James replies, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I should do that more often.”

“I am not speechless—” Jeremy starts, but is cut off by James kissing him again.

It’s not like this is new, particularly—the kissing, at least. It’s just that that part of the evening usually starts after they are sufficiently inebriated and zonked out in front of the telly, not when they’re _sober_. That progression had seemed natural, like it was the next step in their friendship; neither of them had questioned it and they certainly hadn’t put words to it. Jeremy doesn’t like to peer too closely at it. The last thing he needs is an existential crisis at his age—and besides, he isn’t a homosexualist. He just likes the taste of James’ lips.

“Have you eaten?” James asks, pulling away and heading into the kitchen like he owns the place. Jeremy is helpless to follow in his wake.

“No, I was waiting for you,” he replies once he’s recovered, leaning in the doorway and watching as James bustles about his kitchen. “As per usual.”

James doesn’t miss the quip and, as he turns, Jeremy can see a ghost of a smile on his face. It’s such a warm moment, so soft and domestic, that for a moment it terrifies and thrills him, all at once. They are much too old for these sorts of games, and yet they both continue to play them. But he squashes whatever warm feelings linger in his heart and leans forward to take the glass of rosé that James has just poured him, deliberately ignoring the way he shivers when their fingers brush. It’s just about sex, that’s all. Two fat old bastards rutting against each other to try and chase away the loneliness. No use trying to make it into something it’s not.

James continues to be awfully distracting all night—so distracting, in fact, that before Jeremy knows it he’s pissed and too busy staring into James’ eyes to bother with any thoughts of Richard. Or touching. Although that sounds like a good idea, so he moves his hand clumsily in the direction of James’ face, ending up with his fingers on his lips. James leans into the touch, opening his mouth, his tongue licking at the pad of Jeremy’s pointer finger. “Christ,” Jeremy breathes throatily, his eyes wide.

“No need to bring him into this,” James replies, but he sounds a little ragged, too.

That rings warning bells in Jeremy’s head—there’s someone who he _did_ want to bring into this. Someone annoying. And short. Richard? The last thing he wants to be thinking about right now is Richard Hammond—he hasn’t stooped that low, _yet_ —and so he leans forward to kiss James because that is just easier to explain than how he suddenly can’t stop thinking about his other colleague’s arse.

“Not on the sofa,” James mumbles as Jeremy’s fingers start undoing the buttons on shirt. “Jeremy, I mean it. You won’t be able to get up afterwards.”

“Is that a threat, James?” Jeremy pulls open James’ shirt and splays a hand on his chest, feeling his heart race under his hands. He’s so _warm_. So nice to touch. “Because there’s only one of us who won’t be able to walk after I’m finished with you, and it’s not me.”

James’ pupils dilate—Jeremy can actually _see_ them widen—and he wonders how he can have such an effect, how this push-pull between them can even be real. “Oh,” he replies, and swallows.

They do end up moving to the bedroom—“because I want to suck you,” Jeremy had said crudely, watching James colour red underneath his fingers, “and I doubt my knees would survive kneeling for that long”—and they strip each other languidly, slowly, knowing they have nothing but time. Jeremy has nothing to be ashamed of, not after this long, but James’ every action still reflects shyness, and it’s quietly endearing.

“Oh, God, Jeremy,” James moans as Jeremy’s hand comes down between them to grasp at his cock, his thumb brushing across the underside of the head. When he opens his eyes to look up at Jeremy his eyes are dark and his face is flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead—and like this, coming undone in Jeremy’s hands, he has never looked more beautiful. “You’re—”

“The best shag you’ve ever had?” Jeremy supplies helpfully, setting an agonisingly slow pace that has James writhing. “A sex god? A homosexualist sex god with magic hands?”

“All of the above,” James gasps, reaching for and pulling Jeremy closer. “Please, just—”

After this long Jeremy knows exactly what he needs so he slides down the bed to take James’ cock in his mouth, flattening his tongue against the slit, biting back a smile as James groans long and loud. They have done this enough times that Jeremy has an idea now of what James likes, and what James likes is Jeremy’s mouth. He doesn’t proclaim to be any good at this—it’s not like he has much experience—but James seems to enjoy it. He’s messy and enthusiastic and when he pulls his mouth away to replace it with his hand he looks up to see James propped up on his elbows, watching him with an expression of what might be fondness behind the desire. “You look good like that,” he says hoarsely.

“Mmm, you’re just saying that because it shuts me up,” Jeremy complains, but dips his head back anyway to lick up the length of James’ cock, feeling him throb. “Only you have that power, James. Use it wisely.”

“I’ll remember that next time you’re being particularly irritating in a staff meeting,” breathes James with feigned nonchalance, but his chest is heaving as Jeremy teases him. “Jez, don’t tease—”

He reaches down to wind his hand through Jeremy’s hair and it’s when he does that Jeremy sees a flash of earlier—of Richard’s hand on James’ neck, of James leaning back into the touch and looking up at him with—with affection. That doesn’t belong on his face unless Jeremy is the one putting it there, and he does not want to examine where this sudden bout of possessiveness has come from. It doesn’t matter, regardless. He’s sure he is the only one on the Earth who can make James moan like this. “Hammond wouldn’t suck you like this,” he mutters, taking James into his mouth once more.

James laughs and gives a sharp tug on Jeremy’s hair—before his laugh trails off into a series of gasps and groans, eked from his throat by Jeremy’s tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his cock. “What’s Hammond got to do with this?” he gets out around gasps, before arching on the bed. “Jez—I can’t—I need you to—come here—”

Acquiescing and letting the Richard issue go for now—his name sounds sweet enough on James’ lips that it’s easy enough to forget—Jeremy somehow knows what he needs so he crawls up the length of James’ body again to kiss him, letting him taste the lingering remnants of precome. They gasp and rut against each other, and then James reaches down and curls his hand around both their cocks and Jeremy shudders and moans, long and loud, grasping at James because he needs to touch, to feel. They grind each other into completion, James coming first; Jeremy stares at the line of his throat as the throws his head back and realises, rather faintly, that he may be in too deep. All his thoughts are wiped clean by his orgasm, James continuing to stroke him even with his fingers covered in his own come, and as he comes all he can think is _mineminemineminemine_.

“Get off me,” James complains a few moments later as they are still coming down off the high. Jeremy obliges by rolling onto his side and he feels the bed depress and lift as James, ever the pedant, gets up and heads no doubt to the bathroom. “Fat oaf,” he hears him whisper with affection, and Jeremy doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

***

A week passes, and although he keeps an eye out for any more suspicious touches between James and Richard he sees nothing. They are acting completely normally; all of them are swept up in planning for the new season, so spirits are running high, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He would be tempted to dismiss what he saw as a hallucination brought on by his aging eyes, except the way James had leaned into Richard is, unfortunately, seared into his brain as much as he tells himself it shouldn’t be.

That is, until, he looks up from his keyboard one afternoon—late enough that he could be on his way home, if not for the words that are buzzing around in his head, determined to be put to paper—and sees Richard and James standing in the little kitchen attached to their office. They aren’t doing anything inappropriate, just standing about with their arms folded, and in fact he nearly looks back down again before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. There’s something that’s off, something about James that he recognises… It takes him a moment, but when it hits him it feels like a punch to his gut.

James is looking down at Richard with affection—and not just the affection one has for a colleague, either. This is the same affection that had coloured his features last week at Jeremy’s.

With a flash he’s up and out of seat, moving faster than a man of his size has any right to, and barges into the kitchen with no pretense of subtlety. “Care for a cuppa, May?” he asks breezily, completely destroying whatever moment was brewing between the two of them.

(He doesn’t even want tea, if he’s honest. But he avoids the truth. It’s easier.)

“Hell truly hath frozen over if you’re the one offering to make me a cup of tea, Clarkson,” James replies, but he takes the mug Jeremy brandishes at him rather delicately, his eyebrows drawn together with an unspoken question.

“Yeah, and I’ll take one too mate, since you’re offering,” pipes up Richard from behind Jeremy.

For some reason Jeremy wants to turn around and slam the mug down on his head, but he refrains and instead just passes it to him, resisting the urge to let his uneasiness show on his face. He could be reading into things, of course. But he doubts it. He knows James well enough by now to know how that the distance between them is just slightly too close for James to be comfortable—ordinarily he’d move away, but he hasn’t budged an inch. Their elbows are brushing, and that’s an intimate sort of touch, especially with how James was looking at Richard.

“Move, Hammond,” he says, deliberately leaning between them to get at the tea bags, forcing them apart with his bulk. “Always getting underfoot.”

Richard snorts. “Not my fault you can’t see where you’re going these days.” But he moves and the moment is broken and Jeremy can breathe again. “Are you heading out soon? D’you wanna come to the pub?”

Jeremy does not miss how he says _come_ instead of _go_ —these are plans that have already been carefully laid without him. The exclusion stings, separate from that emotion-that’s-suspiciously-like-jealousy that is flaring in his chest, parallel but intertwined. It’s idiotic of him, since he knows this is not an unusual occurrence; their little group has always worked in all different variations, each having unique things in common with the two others. But now that there’s this weight between James and Richard that he hasn’t sensed before, it has taken on a new significance.

“Better not,” he replies, taking James’ mug from him to run it under the fancy boiling water tap they’d had installed not too long ago. He doesn’t even have to see James’ face to know that he’s wrinkling his nose at the tea bags, but, well, he’d accepted the offer. “I should probably get home and keep working. Lots of writing to do. Crafting my manifesto, my magnum opus, et cetera.”

“Now that’s truly terrifying.” James takes the mug and looks down at the tea bag disdainfully. “Jeremy Clarkson’s manifesto. I shudder at the thought.”

Richard, however, does not seem to want to take no for an answer, and when he shoves his mug at Jeremy for the same hot water treatment he puts a hand on Jeremy’s arm and his expression turns pleading. He looks rather adorable, actually. Not that Jeremy would ever say that out loud. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! We haven't been out as a three for ages. It’ll be a proper piss-up.”

“And watch you two flirting all night?” This he says lightheartedly, but he watches as they both flinch at his words. “I’ll pass on that one, thank you very much.”

This time the look that James throws his way is sharp—piercing, even, since he looks rather pissed off. But Richard just looks slightly stunned as Jeremy hands him back his mug, and Jeremy almost wants to smack the expression off his face. “God, are you feeling alright, Clarkson?” he asks eventually, recovering with a grace Jeremy secretly admires. “You’re not projecting, are you?”

Oh, it makes his blood boil. But it’s not like he can make a scene— _for God’s sake you probably know James and I are shagging and with the way you two are mooning at each other I wouldn’t be surprised if you two were shagging as well which is just fantastic because I may be a teensy bit smitten with James_ —so he just plays along, grinning back and waggling his eyebrows because this is a verbal spar they have had many, many times over the years and he knows the role he has to play. He gets the milk from the fridge and dutifully adds it to their cups, playing nice and ignoring the way James is glaring at him something fierce.

***

“What the hell were you playing at in there?”

He knew he shouldn’t have lingered out the front of the office to have a cigarette before the drive home, but he had done anyway, and now that he’s got James bearing down on him like a freight train he can do nothing but sigh and lift the cigarette to his lips. “Whatever do you mean, James?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” James hisses. “Answer the question. Were you trying to be funny?”

It hurts to see James wound up like this, and not just because seeing him in distress is—well, distressing. It’s further evidence to the conclusion that Jeremy is starting to draw, even if he wonders if he’s being absurd as he thinks it. Two incidents do not an affair make. And it’s not an affair, anyway—he and James aren’t… anything. “I wasn’t trying to wind you up,” he offers, since he _wasn’t_. It was mainly Richard he was trying to offend. “But, you know… Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

That apparently snaps something inside James and he takes a step back, his expression smoothing into blankness. “That was immature, Jeremy.” He pauses. “Even for you.”

That genuinely stings, more than he thought it could. James has called him worse things over the years, after all. But this is all coming from a place Jeremy is unfamiliar with. They are completely in uncharted waters, the both of them, and he gets the sense that James is only just treading water too. He doesn’t let the hurt show on his face, though; instead he takes another drag of his cigarette with shaking fingers, feigning nonchalance. Self-sabotage. It’s all he knows how to do, apparently. “Right. Well. I’ll get out of your hair, then.” He waits for James to say anything, but he just watches guardedly as Jeremy drops his cigarette and crushes it underfoot. “Enjoy the pub.”

There’s a thousand thoughts swirling around his head as he slips into his car and peels out of the carpark, but he refuses to let even a single one of them surface and instead just loses himself in the familiar sensations of driving. The emotion-that’s-suspiciously-like-jealousy is tightening his chest once more, and it’s completely absurd so he refuses to pay it even the slightest bit of attention. He has nothing to be jealous of, and even if he did, he has no right to. They’ve both avoided labelling their—thing. He still won’t even consider that, not really; labelling it will make it real, something bigger than them both, and while he’s never, ever backed down from a challenge, something about this is different.

His phone buzzes with a text when he lets himself into his flat, and he fishes it out of his pocket, reaching for his reading glasses before remembering seeing James wearing them earlier today (honestly, between the two of them it’s like a kleptomaniac’s conference, except the only item being pilfered is reading glasses—constant stealing back and forth). When he finally finds another pair and slides them on only to see it’s a text from Richard, he nearly throws his phone on the sofa. He stops himself only because he is not _that_ petulant, or at least not as petulant as James likes to think.

 _are you sure you won’t reconsider mate?? James is in a Mood, it’d be way more fun with you here to keep him entertained_ , it reads.

Jeremy chews on his lip for a moment before wandering over to his desk and sinking down into the chair. _sorry. buy him a pint on my behalf_ , he texts back, and then places the phone face-down to turn to his laptop, trying—and failing—to banish all rogue thoughts about his suspiciously-acting colleagues.

***

He’s woken to his phone buzzing so furiously it nearly falls off the coffee table, and in a moment of dexterity he manages to reach out and snag it before it goes crashing to the floor. He blinks sleepily at it, eyebrows furrowed, before remembering—he’d spent a good few hours in front of his computer, pecking away at the keys, before settling onto the sofa with a glass of wine, intending to see if there was anything good on telly. Evidently there wasn’t, as he seems to have drifted off at some point. The clock on his phone reads _12:07_ and he frowns at it. It’s still vibrating, and at first he thinks it’s ringing; but then he realises they’re text messages, rolling in one after the other, and it’s all he can do to sit there on the sofa and read them as they come through.

_Clarkson, you should have come out with us._  
_Hammond won’t stop imbibing me with pints._  
_He seems determined to drink me under the table, which is laughable._  
_It would have been better with you here._  
_Although we are talking about our bikes quite a lot without you interrupting every five seconds to tell us you are being bored to the point of death._

Those are from earlier in the night, and he scrolls down.

_I miss you, you know._  
_Oh dear. I didn’t mean to press send on that one._  
_Oh well._

A long gap of an hour and a half, and then—

_Clarkson._  
_Whats are yo ydojng?_  
_What are you doing?_  
_Fat thumbs._  
_You've ebeen strange lately._  
_But you really have no right to br._  
_be*_  
_All right that is not a point I should be raising. while intoxicated_  
_Richard is just as bad._  
_Just thought you should know._

Those are the ones that are rolling in as he watches, and then his phone buzzes once more, but this time it’s Richard: _mate im blind drunk but think im near your flat can we come up please i think i need some water and theres no good pubs around here_

For one small, petty moment he considers turning them away before immediately reconsidering it. They’ll pay for what they’ve done tomorrow with their hangovers; the least he can do is try to lessen the unpleasantries. As he stands up and stretches, wincing as his back twinges, he stares at the wine bottle on the coffee table and wonders when on earth he got so boring; perhaps he’s absorbed some of James through their liaisons, although the thought makes him shudder.

 _of course_ , he replies to Richard, before looking at the wine bottle again and making a decision.

When his buzzer goes off he’s sitting at the kitchen table drinking straight from the bottle, feeling not an ounce of shame as he lets them up. He opens the door with it still in hand, not quite knowing what to expect but somehow being surprised anyway. They’ve got their arms wrapped around each other in what appears to be, at first glance, a pathetic attempt on Richard’s part to hold James up. But James’ hand has drifted low onto Richard’s hip, and Richard’s arm is snaking around James’ waist in a touch that looks decidedly more supportive than it seems. They look better than Jeremy was expecting, though; James is alert, if slightly glassy-eyed, and Richard looks the same as he always does after a night out—bedraggled, like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. “Let us in, won’t you?” Richard complains, taking a staggering step forward and half-dragging James with him. “I’ve had to half carry him down the bloody street and he’s a lot heavier than he looks.”

Jeremy doesn’t dignify that with a response. He simply steps aside and raises the wine bottle to his lips once more, because he knows James and he knows the progress of James’ intoxication by now very well—and James is not _nearly_ drunk enough to need Richard’s help. He watches as they make their way to the sofa and sink down onto it as one, James not moving from Richard’s side. It’s like he’s _stuck_ there. Jeremy just shuts the door and makes his way over to the armchair, settling himself down and watching them both, waiting.

Richard cracks first. “Aren’t you going to get me some water?”

“Get it yourself,” he replies not unkindly, gesturing lazily in the direction of the kitchen. “You know where everything is.”

“Some bloody host you are,” Richard huffs, but he gets up from the sofa—not without placing his hand on James’ knee to spring up, something Jeremy does not miss—and obligingly makes his way to the kitchen. “Want anything, James?”

Jeremy doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Instead he leans forward in his chair and narrows his eyes at James, who is regarding him unblinkingly. His hair is getting slightly long again, and part of it is falling over his face; it’s so easy for him to hide from the world, and Jeremy sometimes envies him. “What, exactly, are you doing?” he hisses, and James just blinks back at him.

“Whatever do you mean, Jeremy?” he replies evenly.

His chest tightens with that feeling—and he can’t deny it any longer. It’s jealousy. He doesn’t know why, since he thought he didn’t have feelings for James in that capacity; apparently, he was wrong. It’s not very often he admits that, even to himself. The knowledge sits on his tongue, heavy and weighty and _wrong_ , and instead of replying he just leans back and drinks the last of his wine, wishing he had more. Because even if he admits it, there’s nothing he can do about it. He and James have never defined what they are, and if the way he’s all over Richard is any indication it’s clear that he’s broadening his horizons. And that’s the problem—Jeremy doesn’t _want_ James to broaden his horizons. He wants James for himself. And he certainly doesn’t want James broadening his horizon with Richard of all people, because there’s always been an undercurrent of _something_ between Jeremy and Richard; some competitiveness, some edge. It’s thrilling but also dangerous. The escalating tensions threaten to make it even moreso.

(Jeremy wishes he could be surprised that Richard leans that way, but he knows better. No one makes it through art school completely unscathed.)

“Here you go,” Richard says, coming back from the kitchen and bending over to slide a glass of water in front of James (Jeremy doesn’t even bother to avoid staring at his arse; it’s almost second nature at this point). He eyes Jeremy’s empty wine bottle as he sits, raising an eyebrow and pointing at it accusingly. “Good night?”

Instantly defensive, he sniffs. “It was, actually. I got a good amount of work done.”

“You sound like James. Are you sure you two haven’t switched places?” Richard sets his glass down on the table, a ghost of a smile on his features. He sounds tipsy, but not as drunk as either of them had implied. “Is this not some weird _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ thing?”

“ _You’ve_ seen that film?” James asks at the same time that Jeremy starts laughing, and they both exchange glances.

Richard looks instantly sheepish. “Well… no. But I don’t need to, do I? My point is made.” He gestures between the two of them. “You’re both acting weird.”

He didn’t mean anything by it, Jeremy knows—but his remark, combined with the fact that James’ arm is draped around the back of his sofa, his fingers brushing Richard’s shoulder, snaps something in him and he narrows his eyes. “And you two aren’t? Don’t think I haven’t noticed all your touching at work.”

“So?” Richard juts his chin up, a glint of something dark in his eyes.

Jeremy feels his heart start to race. The tension that was boiling has suddenly exploded into being, so solid and real it may as well be sitting in the room with them. Gritting his teeth, he looks at James, who looks back at him impassively. Typical. “So, I think you should stop it,” he replies, voice low. It’s not a threat—Richard is still his mate above all, and even James can’t change that—but the thought of anyone else laying hands on James makes him sick.

“Why? Is it giving you ideas, Clarkson?” Richard leans forward, smirk on his face now. “Does it make you jealous?”

And just like that, the remains of Jeremy’s frayed temper finally give way and he shoots to his feet. Richard mirrors the gesture and they’re instantly in each other’s space, Richard looking up at him so defiantly it takes his breath away. “He’s _mine_ , Hammond—”

“Enough!” That’s James, getting wearily to his feet, and they both stop their posturing to look at him. “Both of you, enough. This is juvenile. I’m not some prize for you to bicker over.”

“But—” Jeremy starts, somewhat desperately.

“No!” James turns on him at that. “You have no right to lecture me on this, Clarkson, not when you’ve steadily avoided any form of conversation I attempted to have with you regarding our…” he pauses to blush, and the sight is so sweet, even in the midst of all this, that Jeremy wants to reach out and cup his cheek. “Regarding our relationship, or should I say lack of one.”

“James—” Richard tries.

“And you,” James says, rounding on Richard, “are just as bad. Sometimes I think you actually get off on flaunting what we do in front of Jeremy, like it’s all a game to you. I’m completely trapped in the middle and I don’t think it’s fair that you’re both having a row over me!” He stops, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “And now I’m going to go to bed. We can discuss this in the morning.”

Jeremy doesn’t make a move to stop him; they’re all wound so tight that he’s half afraid James will _really_ snap if he does. So he and Richard just stand there uselessly and watch as he turns and heads down the hall to Jeremy’s spare room, not looking back at them at all.

“I knew you two were shagging,” Jeremy says smugly, turning back to Richard to gloat. “I _knew_ it. You couldn’t have been more obvious about it if you tried.”

“Alright, Sherlock fucking Holmes,” Richard snaps irritably, shoving Jeremy with his elbow. “Just save it for later, would you? Look what we’ve done.”

They fall silent, staring down the dark hall that James had disappeared into. Jeremy sighs and runs a hand over his face. “We should go after him.”

“We should.”

But neither of them move. Jeremy can’t stop thinking about how he was reading into things correctly, and while he’d initially been elated at being proven right—there’s no better feeling in the world, after all—he’s now just a snarled mess of emotions that he has no idea how to even begin deciphering. If he’s honest, his head hurts and he just wants to go to sleep with James in his arms, but it’s clear that’s not going to happen; not tonight, at least.

He glances down at Richard to find him staring back up at him, his expression clouded and unreadable. There’s something dark in his eyes, and for a moment they just stand there. Jeremy doesn’t have a name for what’s simmering between them, but maybe that’s alright, for now. Richard takes a step closer, putting himself in Jeremy’s orbit once more, and breathes out shakily. “Come on,” he murmurs, and reaches for Jeremy’s hand.

Jeremy lets himself be lead down the hall—of his own flat, no less—by Richard, his head spinning slightly in a way he suspects has absolutely nothing to do with the wine and more to do with how his evening is turning out. Richard’s hand is warm and smooth in his, and he shivers, one of those emotions he refuses to identify skittering down his spine. There’d been a time, years ago, where he’d fancied Richard for about three seconds—he’d grown out of it reasonably quickly once he’d realised they would just drive each other mental, and he’d felt funny about trying to shag a colleague, anyhow. Age and jadedness has changed one of those factors but not the other. Still, something to think about.

“James?” he calls as they enter the bedroom. James is just a lump under the blankets, a messy pile of grey hair poking out. “Are you awake?”

The lump stirs, and Richard rolls his eyes as he toes off his shoes. “Well he is now, you twat,” he replies, but there’s no weight behind his words and Jeremy just grins back at him. “Jaaames, we’ve come to cheer you up.”

Jeremy opens his mouth to say something but then Richard’s ripping his t-shirt over his head, and all his clever retorts slip away. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Richard shirtless before, for God’s sake, but it’s never been in a bedroom where the atmosphere is so… _heated_ between the three of them. And just because it’s been a while since he’s fancied Richard does not mean that he’s not attracted to him, because—Christ, apparently he is. “I don’t know if I want to stay and watch this,” he warns, jealousy rearing its ugly head once more, turning his stomach even though he’s practically salivating at the prospect of Richard Hammond shirtless in his flat with a glint of something mischievous in his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid,” Richard replies, and then he’s barrelling into Jeremy. “That’s not what I want at all.”

He doesn’t even have a chance to rebut, because then Richard’s grabbing him by the hair and dragging him down into a kiss. Oh. _Oh_. It’s on instinct rather than anything else that he kisses him back, stumbling backwards so he’s got his back to the wall, his hands slipping down Richard’s sides—so much _skin_ , he’s so _warm_ —to rest on his hips. When they pull apart they’re both breathing raggedly, Jeremy perhaps moreso, and all they can do is stare at each other. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Richard breathes, and grins.

“Well,” James says from the bed behind them. He’s sitting up, shoulders slumped and hair looking like a bird’s nest as he watches them. There’s such an expression of rapt wonder on his face that it twinges something deep in Jeremy’s breastbone, perilously close to his heart. “That’s not quite what I expected when I heard you two approaching.”

“What can I say? We’re full of surprises,” Jeremy manages to croak, because Richard’s hands are undoing the buttons of his shirt alarmingly fast, and it’s completely distracting.

“Obviously,” James replies dryly.

They strip each other methodically, treating it like it’s an everyday occurrence even though it’s anything but; Richard’s got a crazed look in his eyes and he keeps pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to every part of Jeremy’s skin he reveals, and Jeremy can’t stop himself from _touching_. When they’re both finally, completely naked and Richard turns to get on the bed, Jeremy swears his knees go weak at the sight of his arse. _Christ_.

“This is also never a situation I expected to be in,” James says once they’re settled on the bed, either side of him; Jeremy’s got a leg draped over his and Richard is skimming a hand along his collarbone. “Er, ever.”

“Sounds like you’re complaining, May,” Jeremy murmurs as he shifts so he can brush his lips along James’ neck, knowing the sensitive spots that drive him mad. “Would you rather we left?”

James snorts, but when he turns his head to look Jeremy in the eyes he has an expression of barely-concealed hunger on his face. “Pillock,” he whispers, and kisses Jeremy.

They both feel like coming home, Jeremy realises, albeit in different ways; Richard is a wildfire, burning out of control and consuming them both, but James’ kisses are like a fireplace on a winter’s night, calming and warming from the inside out. And the way that James gasps when Richard pulls his boxers off and wraps a hand around his cock, his hand cupping the back of Jeremy’s neck to deepen the kiss—well, that’s the sweetest part of all. Jeremy can’t even feign surprise that they all work well like this. Why wouldn’t they?

“Oh, God,” James moans, arching underneath Jeremy as Richard slides down the bed to take his cock in his mouth. “Richard, I—”

The jealousy is still there, swimming around Jeremy’s head, but somehow it’s more manageable now that he’s included. Besides, it feels right, as absurd as that is; the affection he has for James is still there of course, ever-present as James writhes languidly underneath him, but when he looks down at Richard he’s surprised to find some of it has apparently extended to him as well, even though he’s just as irritating as ever, looking up from sucking James’ cock to wink at them both. Hmm. Perhaps that will wear off in the morning.

“Right,” he whispers to a slightly dazed James, getting his attention. “Can’t let him take all the credit, can I?”

He doesn’t give James a chance to respond before he joins Richard and fists a hand in his hair, dragging him off James’ cock and into a kiss that’s sloppy and wet and heated and everything he didn’t even realise he needed. It’s only until James starts making noises—that sound suspiciously close to a whine—that they break apart to look at him, only to find him propped up on his elbows, red-faced. “Oh, no,” he breathes.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Oh no? That’s not quite the reaction I’d hoped for.” He winks at Richard. “Better do it again, just to see if that changes anything.”

“I’m really not going to last long if you’re—Jesus, Jeremy, Richard, I can’t—both of you stop it—for God’s sake—”

It’s quite fun driving James up the wall, but it’s even more fun kissing Richard. There’s something intoxicating about him, something that’s quickly settling underneath Jeremy’s skin, something that Jeremy can see reflected in his eyes—he feels he could spend an age doing this, just this, but then James nearly knees him in the head and he returns his attention to what they were meant to be doing. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the inside of James’ thigh, spreading his legs with a hand. “You should have told me how fun he is.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Richard warns, and as Jeremy watches he licks a long, slow stripe up the base of James’ cock, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

Not to be outdone, Jeremy wraps a hand around James’ length and starts slowly stroking in time with Richard’s movements, his hand spit-slick and slippery. The noises that James are making is like nothing Jeremy has ever heard him make before, and he reaches for them both desperately; one hand ends up in Richard’s hair, the other somewhere near Jeremy’s shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully. That’s perhaps the best part of it all, Jeremy realises somewhat faintly; it’s so beyond satisfying to watch James come undone underneath the both of them, because this is really the only time he feels comfortable enough to let go completely. And even though Jeremy is still jealous of the way he looks at Richard—even though he thinks there isn’t enough room in his heart for the both of them—even though he’s not sure if embarking on a threeway with his colleagues is the best idea, albeit it’s a little too late for that—he thinks maybe, just maybe, this is good enough for him.

“Please,” James begs, although Jeremy doesn’t know what he’s asking for. “Please, Rich, Jez, I’m—”

He comes with a soundless cry, the hand that was on Jeremy’s shoulder falling to twist in the sheets. Richard just keeps his tongue flat on the underside of James’ cock and closes his eyes; Jeremy’s close enough that James’ come gets on his face as well, and it’s an absolutely filthy sight—made filthier by Richard turning his head and licking at the stripes of come on Jeremy’s chin, his eyes dark and his gaze unwavering.

“God,” Jeremy groans softly, only just now painfully aware of how hard he is, how close Richard is. He slides a hand over his chin and wipes it ungracefully on the bedsheets, his eyes wide. “Who knew you were such a little deviant?”

“James,” Richard points out, and they both turn to look at him.

He’s breathing heavily, an arm thrown over his face; when Jeremy moves back up to pull it away he can see he’s red-faced and sweaty, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded. “Still alive, May?”

“Don’t think so,” James mutters in reply.

If that’s not a satisfying sight, he doesn’t know what is, and he turns to look back over his shoulder at Richard and waggle his eyebrows suggestively. “Well, now that we’ve killed him, what do you suggest we do? I can think of any number of—”

“Oh, shut up,” Richard growls, and then he’s pushing into Jeremy’s personal space, forcing him onto his back and kissing him long and hard and fierce. They’re both hard and gasp as their cocks brush; Jeremy reaches down between them but Richard gets there first and slaps his hand away. He’s practically vibrating with his need at this point; it’s almost awe-inspiring, in a way, how wide his pupils are and how clearly lust is pouring off him in droves. “Jez, Jez, Jez, want you to fuck me, Jez.”

It’s far past his bedtime, and his back is giving him grief thanks to his earlier sojourn on the sofa, and he’d sort of hoped he’d get to see Richard with his lips wrapped around his cock—but at this his heart rate picks up again and he suddenly feels invincible, the rest of the world—and his back—be damned. “Oh,” he says, and gulps. Apparently it’s not only James who can render him speechless. “Well, I—”

“He’s wriggly,” James warns, half-sitting up, evidently rejoining the land of the living. He’s smiling, though. No jealousy there. “Doesn’t shut up, either.”

“So just like usual, then.”

Richard pouts at that, but he’s too far gone to care; he fetches the lube and condoms obligingly—doesn’t even protest and insist Jeremy goes to get them, which is a clear sign of how desperate he is—and then lies down on top of James, pulling him into a kiss as Jeremy stares. Richard is spread out in front of him, James kissing him leisurely, and he wonders if they are actually going to be the death of him.

The noise that Richard makes when Jeremy slides a finger into him is only superseded by the noise he makes when Jeremy actually presses his cock up against his entrance and slides in all the way—and by god, it’s one of the most beautiful noises he’s ever heard, up there with God-tier engines and the way James moans sometimes. There’s a few moments where they’re both adjusting—it’s not the best position, considering James is half-sitting up against the headboard, Richard draped on his chest, and Jeremy has to hold himself up so he doesn’t crush James underneath the both of them—and breathing together, and when he looks up and locks eyes with James a shiver runs through him. _He looks content_ , he thinks, and then that’s the last coherent thought he has.

They are explosive. He’d been prepared for that, based off their kisses, but this is something else entirely; every movement that Richard makes is telegraphed straight to his cock, and it’s heady in such a delicious way. It’s made worse—or better, he can’t quite tell—by the way that James is whispering sweet nothings to Richard the entire time, his hands stroking circles into his back, his eyes boring holes in Jeremy’s. Whatever he’s whispering is drowned out by Richard’s near-constant babbling, which just fuels Jeremy even more—“God Jez fuck yeah you feel so good god please don’t stop god James I need you I need you both fuck”—and he doesn’t even care that he has no idea where any of them stand, he doesn’t even care that he doesn’t know what he feels for either of them, he doesn’t care that he wants to fuck both of them for the rest of eternity. All he cares about is this—and it’s the sweetest thing in the world.

Richard comes first with a shout, writhing and pressing his hips back into Jeremy like he wants more. James holds him through the comedown and Jeremy follows suit not long after, tipping his head back and moaning; all he sees when he closes his eyes is the two of them, sweaty and spent, and how good they’d looked together.

As tempting as it is to collapse on the bed and not move, he makes himself head to the bathroom to clean up—only because he knows that when he lies down he will not be able to get up again; not until the morning, at least. By the time he comes back and throws a damp washcloth at Richard’s head (his aim is slightly off so it skims his hair and hits the headboard behind his head) they’ve cuddled up in bed together, looking so peaceful and right together for a moment that Jeremy doesn’t want to disturb. But then James looks up at him and smiles, extending a hand, and something warm settles in his chest to replace the jealousy.

It takes some arranging, but eventually they manage to all fit under the covers together, once James has stopped being fussy about cleanliness and has accepted the fact that he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to shower. The bed isn’t really suitable for three, but they make it work; they’re both draped all over James, but for once he doesn’t seem to mind (that’ll change once he falls asleep; he always kicks Jeremy away in the middle of the night, almost like his default state of touch-averseness is back in place). The jealousy is almost entirely gone, now; all that remains is a happy warmth, swimming through his limbs and brain, making him boneless and incredibly sleepy.

“I don’t suppose now is the time for us to discuss our relationship, or lack of one,” he croaks, rolling onto his side so he can see James’ face, illuminated by the weak moonlight from the window.

It’s also how he can see James smile in the dark, and sees the hand coming to lazily swat at him. “Shut up, Jeremy,” he says with affection, and Richard snorts.

“I’ll share him if you will,” Richard offers.

It only takes Jeremy a moment to come up with an answer; he’s on the verge of dropping off into sleep and his brain feels like it’s full of cotton wool. Regardless, the answer is obvious. Three is a tricky number—harder than two, not as even as four—but if any three people in the world could make it work, it would be them. “Done,” he replies sleepily.

The last thing he sees before he drifts off is James, his eyes closed and a small, content smile on his face; it echoes the one on his own and, he’s sure, on Richard’s.


End file.
